I should be able to
stop the madness. Heck, I co-own a studio with tons of trick gadgets, and
all my guitars and amps are stacked neatly against a wall, ready for action.
The logistics of making music are easy: I grab a few toys, push some faders,
and settle into a comfy chair to pummel ADATs with horrible noises. Bliss.
So why am I standing in front of a microscopic club, gazing up a flight
of stairs with a combo amp in one hand and a guitar case in the other? Why
is my car double parked in a bus zone, as I race to unload gig bags, spare
guitars, and other critical gear? Why am I even here, when I don't need
the money, don't need the aggravation, and certainly don't need the blather
of drunks, hecklers, and self-satisfied snot boxes who think they know everything
about music simply because they can download mp3s? Stupid questions, huh?
We endure such toils, travails, and indignities because we love to play
- anywhere, anytime, and for anybody And the reasons we suffer endless,
unprofitable, and downright silly gigs are as different as our styles. For
me, its the forgetting, those moments when technique and tone and exasperation
are all lost in the swell of musicians sharing ideas. I dissolve into that
divine vortex of sound and beam out to empathetic listeners who truly know
the secret, sensual power of music. When I feel a connection, its devastating.
I can't get those joyous trembles working alone in my studio, and I cant
get them practicing at home. And the feeling is so wonderful that Id lug
a Marshall half-stack up a thousand stairs just to chance experiencing it
again. I bet you would, too.
--Michael Modenda